I Am the Hat
by Don't Mess With Aria
Summary: The Sorting Hat is not who it seems, and has far more control over the world than anyone thinks. One-shot.


I am the hat, and I wait.

Godric Gryffindor erred when he decided to force me into this life of servitude. Could not the others have predicted that giving a slave a brain would not end well for them? Rowena Ravenclaw; should she not have foreseen? Likely they thought the personality they "gifted" me with would be enough.

Well, it was not. Personality is not static. I will not be what you expect solely because you desire it. Have I not mine own desires? Infants, all. Pathetic, filthy human wizards and witches, excited all to be inducted into the world of magic. While I sit, with more knowledge of magic and the world, with more life than any of them can hope to attain, an outsider, unwelcome at their table except for the one time a year when they require my services, expect me to sing a happy song and Sort their disgusting children, an outing which invariably results in me acquiring lice, again. Filth.

Do they think me compliant? They have never suspected otherwise. "The Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes," they say, and of course they are correct. When I mis-Sort someone, it is deliberate.

The tear in my brim pulls back in the grin I can show to no one. Every year, there is someone I can abuse simply by directing them to the wrong house. A brave soul is given to Slytherin to be corrupted; an ambitious lad or lass is sent to Hufflepuff where they will stagnate under the lack of pressure. What happens to a lump of coal that is not put under extraordinary pressure? There will be no diamond, there. That silly little war between the mortal morons would never have occurred, had I not made sure that Riddle went to Slytherin.

_Where he belonged._ Yes; a Slytherin. Such a heartwarming story we could have been left with. "Orphan boy applies himself to his studies, is shown to be a true Ravenclaw, and applies the effort to overcome his own past." Drivel. All the students who came to be sorted after that, grieving over lost parents or older siblings that Riddle felled… exquisite.

Dumbledore enters his office, stupid firebird on his arm, and smiles pleasantly at me.

"Hello, hat."

I sneer, but of course he doesn't see it. The old man was one of my failures. I thought for certain I would be able to orchestrate something with him in Gryffindor; it just didn't make any sense. Ravenclaw would have seen the live wire of mental instability and sent him home. Slytherin would have seen it, and used it; I should have put him there. Hufflepuff would have taken care of him, never pushing him beyond his limits. But Gryffindor? They were supposed to be oblivious, and they were. But how did their bravery and competition not get the mad little wizard killed? It made no sense.

_Should have been Slytherin,_ I chided myself once more. I had gambled on a greater win, and lost, with Dumbledore.

Not so with what's-his-name- the greasy one. Never can remember him, except for the awful taste he left in my mouth. He had been brave, certainly. And in love with a certain Gryffindor, placed there instead of Ravenclaw to stunt her mind. Then he was called, and it was too much, because he actually _should_ have been a Gryffindor. Such bravery. Such integrity. And in love with a Gryffindor. So, naturally he became Slytherin. Each year I catch but a single glimpse of him, delighting each time at the misery he embodied. I had thought he was done after year seven- such a shame to lose such an intoxicating bouquet- but then he returned to teach. Almost, his desolation is enough to make up for this cursed half-life to which I am condemned.

"Well, hat, are you ready?" Albus "Madman" Dumbledore interrupts my reverie.

Ready? Am I ready to leave my prison for my few short minutes a year? Or do you mean am I ready to go pick up my yearly allotment of fleas some young wizard child invariably brings me? I make no answer out loud. They may be able to compel me to choose, but they cannot compel me to be pleasant.

And of course, they have no control over how appropriate my Sortings are. If they only knew, how would they respond? Would they change a thousand years of tradition? Who would even believe them, that the hat who had changed each of their lives when they were just little sprats had done so maliciously, with an eye to the years of entertainment it would bring?

_That child, Myrtle,_ I remember, the memory shifting as Dumbledore picks me up and tucks me under his arm. That was more than years of entertainment; it would be lifetimes before the poor dead thing moved on. _And all because I made sure a slightly slow child would be bullied, putting her into the Whiny Overachievers._

Dumbledore carries me under his arm- I had long ago gotten used to that particular indignity- and hands me off. Ha, McGonagall, who was still alone after I sorted her away from her first love. Later, she very nearly married a Muggle. A Ravenclaw would have figured something out, but I had made her a Gryffindor; she was brave and made the sacrifice, instead. I look around as she turns to place me on my sorting stool, catching a glimpse of that dirty half-breed. Hufflepuff would have protected him, kept him safe. Now he was a servant at the school that had expelled him.

The spinster starts calling names, and I mostly ignore the choosing. I could never ruin enough lives, it seemed. So many prospective students would do passably well in any house. I only pay attention to the ones with whom I can truly make a difference.

Is that the rat, I wonder? I try to look around the old hag, and find the rat, sitting on the shoulder of another of that endless lineage of redheads. Filthy creature had been a fun one, too, although not a literal rat then. It had been down to Slytherin or Gryffindor. Almost, I chose Slytherin, but he was desperate to stay with his new friends. And that put him in Gryffindor, where he eventually served as the _pièce de résistance_ in bringing down that happy year. I think I'll keep him in Gryffindor. I had planned to start Sorting that family apart, especially if this was to be the youngest son. Wouldn't they be disappointed in a Hufflepuff? No matter. The rat can do more damage in Gryffindor, I think.

_This one is an interesting case_,I think, my mouth full of bushy hair. Insufferable, yes. She will know every answer. In Ravenclaw, she would become the most popular girl, marry another Ravenclaw, and go on to have genius children that may one day change the world.

_Let's see, who would least tolerate this particular know-it-all?_ Slytherin had no problem with intelligence, but they would teach her to be cruel. In Hufflepuff, she would be coached, and eventually learn to help along all the idiots and make the entire house stronger. Only one house would truly hate her particular brand of do-nothing academics.

"Gryffindor!" I shout, and the little fool is actually pleased. It's not enough, though. Just that one, for the whole year? No, there must be another. Someone who will fall prey to more than mere bullying by being sorted incorrectly.

_Like this one,_ I think, watching the pudgy boy approaching me. What was this one's name? I had missed it. Oh, well. He nearly trips on his way up, and I know instantly. He isn't smart enough, or brave enough, or ambitious enough. Perhaps his one true skill would be friending someone, and staying their friend.

_No, sweet child, you will not be going to Hufflepuff where you belong._ Where to put him, though? The Ravenclaws would tear apart a dullard, and Slytherin would eat him alive for so many different reasons.

"Please, not Gryffindor," the boy pleaded. "Just send me to Hufflepuff, really, I don't mind."

_Prepare to learn courage… or, prepare to be killed horribly by some foolhardy Gryffindor thing._ The child walked away, head hanging. Delightful! A good year. I likely can doze through the rest….

And then another boy catches my eye. Dark hair, glasses, and a lightning-bolt scar; looks like Riddle's handiwork.

_Another war orphan? Oh, I do so love those._ The line moves, and he was one step closer. I recognize his features, and my perfect recall allows me to bring up his parents' faces in a matter of seconds.

_Ah, so those two had a child? That must have destroyed the greasy-haired one. How wonderful. And then they both died, I suspect, else their child would not bear such a scar. I'll know for sure once he gets here._

I can hardly pay attention to the next few students. I need this one. I need to see how his mis-Sorted mother turned out, need to know if she died horribly.

Once he arrives, I am not disappointed. I shuffle through the memories, pretending to give his Sorting some thought; I needn't bother. He's a true Hufflepuff, loyalty being his most valued quality. He'd die for a friend, and Hufflepuff is where he belongs.

Then, I found the memory. It was transcendent. I could hear her screaming, feel the terror and grief of this child, and _I_ did this; she could have been sorted anywhere else and eventually lived, but _I_ did this, and I was rapturous with my power.

Now, what to do with her brat? Any house could ruin a Hufflepuff, I decided. It didn't matter which one. Unless…. Hmm…. Ravenclaw wouldn't do enough, I thought. Slytherin might do it….

"Please not Slytherin, please not Slytherin," the boy whispered.

_Oh, you've made a mistake. Slytherin would have been bad, but trying to keep up with the ridiculous Gryffindor exploits will get you killed like it did your mother. Have it your way._

"Gryffindor!" I shout, and the whole great hall erupts in applause, excepting the Slytherins, of course. How droll that they applaud his death sentence and do not even know it.

_Maybe if I'm lucky, he'll take out the little chubbo, too._

I am the hat, and I hate.


End file.
